Willful Ressurection
by HissingFauna
Summary: In which Szayelapporo Granz's scientific schemes give several Espada the second chance none of them asked for. Orihime-centric, romance comes several chapters in.
1. Waiting

_Chapter 1: Waiting_

 _-F-_

 **"It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but retire a little from sight and afterwards return again."**

— **Ralph Waldo Emerson**

" _Kill me. Make it quick. I no longer have the strength in me to even walk"_

Had he not been clear enough with the substitute shinigami?

" _If you do not cut me down now, then this will go unsettled for eternity."_

Ah, no. He could not possibly have been clearer. With-what should have been-his dying breaths, he had explicitly commanded the loud mouthed boy to strike him down, and the shinigami had disobeyed.

How...tiresome.

He blinked into the swirling abyss of sand and darkness.

Or, he supposed he blinked, though he could not be sure as his all-seeing eyes could not currently make out his own form, or even discern the flash of an eyelid.

Amorphous, consciousness floating along the current of the desolate winds of Hueco Mundo.

How long had he been here? Where exactly was _here_? He was certainly nowhere near Las Noches, the infamously large domed structure did not mar the expanse of the horizon. Without a body, without a kingdom, what was he?

A failed soldier with no master to serve, with nothing left.

Was it not nothingness that he had craved, surrounded himself with? From the beginning of his existence as an arrancar nearly a century ago, did he not choose to immerse himself in the calm oceans of apathy, to embrace the emptiness, to carve out any feeling that may have remained in his being to create an even create void within himself?

Yes. That had been the entire point in joining Aizen, accursed shinigami though he may be. He offered each prospective arrancar what they most desired: power, camaraderie, purpose, an escape. From hunger, pain, violence, or even the tedium of existence. This nothingness was what Ulquiorra had always strived for, devoted himself to; it was the single most defining trait of his being.

So why did this non-act of drifting cause such an acute ache to develop?

" _Are you afraid of me, woman?"_

The woman.

" _No. I'm not afraid."_

The infuriatingly stupid _woman_.

Facing the deaths of her friends at the hands of an impossibly strong modified army, helmed by a mad traitor with over a century's worth of planning, and she... _not afraid_.

What else was there for her to feel but fear? Desperation, hopelessness, a crushing sense of defeat; any of these would have been appropriate reactions to the situation. Fear was a survival instinct meant to be felt by all creatures in the face of danger.

But she had been so firm in her answer, so quietly resolute and self-assured, not even glancing at her precious _Kurosaki-kun_ to confirm his presence before giving her answer.

The woman had stared into his eyes, into his very being, and reached out. To _him_.

" _I see. This is it. This here, in my palm. A heart."_

A heart.

Is that what was missing in this moment? Amid the desolate sands, was that what he would require to finally be at peace in the void of nothingness he had once desired?

" _This here, in my palm."_

But it had not been in his palm. So close, nearly touching, reaching with the final seconds of his existence, he had been unable to claim it.

The woman stood, arm extended, fingertips reaching out, almost brushing his own, a look of desperation in her eyes. A different desperation than the one she'd worn when rushing to heal the substitute shinigami, for the desperation in her eyes as she had reached towards him held a certain longing that her eyes had lacked when healing her nakama.

Those eyes, filled with an emotion he had yet to see from her, held him there.

For the briefest moment he saw a flash of a new life, one where he was whole, where he could look upon those eyes and all the emotions they held whenever he so chose.

" _I see."_

And the foolish boy had stood, unwilling to finish the battle and cleanse his soul, leaving him adrift, as ash, unseeing in an empty void.

* * *

 _-F-_

" **The thing you let Die within when you are Alive, will be carried with your Soul after Death."**

― **Usha Cosmico**

This was bullshit, absolute, utter, _bullshit_.

He would've growled if he could have beared the pain the movement would cause.

" _They're all cowards, every damn one of them. Whatever. I'll just consume them. As they become my flesh and blood, they will see beyond. I... I am the king!"_

Tch. Yeah _right_. King of getting his own ass kicked. He couldn't even beat the goddamn _substitute_.

" _Those eyes. You're always like that. No matter how much I beat you up, you've got this sense about you that you're going to beat me. You think you're freaking stronger than me! I can't freakin' stand it!_

Well, apparently that mangled apricot _had_ been able to best him in battle-once-but that was hardly relevant. The issue wasn't the defeat itself, but the refusal to let him die with some goddamn _dignity_. As if losing to that orange fucknut wasn't degrading enough, he had to go and leave him _alive_.

Seriously, waking up face-down in the sand just to realize the entire war was over was just plain embarrassing; being nursed back to health by a whiny kid's saliva was altogether un-fucking-bearable.

If he wasn't going to be handed the crown and accepted as the new king, he was supposed to get a clean slate, a do-over as a living being-er, spirit-in the Soul Society. Following Aizen was always going to result in victory or death, that was the basic truth that had guided Grimmjow's actions for the better part of 70 years.

Only total _pussies_ spared opponents in battle; it was such a disgustingly human act that the blue haired arrancar was having to hold himself back from physically retching the longer he thought about it.

And just what exactly was he supposed to do _now?_ He'd sent the disappointingly childish form that Neliel was trapped in away immediately after she had healed his most life-threatening injuries, unable to tolerate the tears, spit, and other disgusting fluids the girl so readily spewed on her surroundings.

If only he'd had enough foresight to stop that thrice damned substitute shinigami from leaving without having that human woman heal him; it was the least that asshole could've done, considering he'd been too stubborn to just finish Grimmjow off.

Ah-ha! The _woman_ , as that emo-spada Ulquiorra had called her, could _reject_ _reality_.

But how much of it? Could she be the one to finally fix whatever it was in him that his inner beast raged at, the thing that forced him to fight, seeking either his own destruction or that of everything within his path?

He damn well planned to find out.

…

As soon as he was able to stand, that is.

* * *

 _-F-_

" _One does not attempt to escape death, but accepts it as one's due, and allows life's cycle to continue, not allowing that death to bring an end to one's own existence."_

Ha, as _if_.

It may have made a good speech, but accepting death was the last thing Szayelaporro Granz planned to do. He had died enough times, thanyouverymuch, and was looking forward to actually getting to _live_.

" _Eternally repeating that cycle of death and rebirth, an existence such as this... truly, mine is what may be called a perfect existence!"_

Okay, maybe he deserved some amount of the pain that wretched shinigami scientist had wreaked upon him. _Some_. Just as a bit, as a reality check. After all, "perfect existence" was a bit of an overstatement, given how things had turned out.

But! The past is in the past, the future stood before him.

" _For one such as me, the concept of 'death' as an end to life simply holds no meaning. You may kill me, but in defiance of the finality of death, I will simply arise once more."_

Or, at least, he _would_ arise, if he could actually die. As it was, he had been impaled upon that maniac's blade for an eternity. Or two. It was hard to tell.

He had moved the unbearable pain and the hysteria it brought upon his supercharged nerve endings into the back of his mind several lifetimes ago-or was it hours? It was hard to tell-, ignoring it for the most part until it would rise up and overwhelm him again.

Regardless, it was time to enact his back-up plan.

His mind was still clouded by the ever-present pain, pushed to the edge of his consciousness but still distracting nonetheless. Faintly, he could almost make out the presence of another espada, though he struggled to identify the spiritual pressure.

Was it Grimmjow? No, this presence lacked the bloodlust Szayel knew to associate with the Sexta.

Harribel? Starrk? There was that laziness to the presence, that deceiving air of calm associated with both of the high ranking espada.

It was growing more distant now, moving away from Las Noches and the various zones of destruction left behind in the wake of the numerous battles fought in the area.

It must have been Harribel, for Starrk would not have returned to Hueco Mundo alone.

Vaguely, he hoped the Primera had survived, if only because he was one of the few espada the younger Granz had deemed significant enough to share his plans with. Well, perhaps not _significant_ , but necessary. Even he had not been so narcissistic as to convince himself he could do _this_ alone. Considering his own state of incapacitation, he thanked his own foresight, though he still regretted having to rely on outside forces to carry out his will.

Perhaps Starrk was alive, and would proceed as instructed. Szayel had impressed the significance of the details of his plan unto the Primera, but could not be sure that the unmotivated man would follow through with his end. If the battle had gone as poorly for everyone else as it had for Szayel, perhaps the Primera would have no choice.

Though Starrk was not his only hope. Maybe Ulquiorra had survived; he had been the only one observant enough-or cautious enough- to notice the scientist's sporadic absences from Hueco Mundo, and Szayel was sure that the Cuenta had pieced together his plans. Surely he, ever the good soldier, would take action to resurrect his comrades, thereby gaining another chance to advance their cause?

Ah, but Ulquiorra Cifer was impossibly closed off, and despite hours of research and observation, Szayel could not even chance a guess at would that particular espada would do next.

If he could do anything at all, that is. Maybe he was dead. Maybe they all were. It was hard to tell.

* * *

 _-F-_

 **"They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time."**

— **Banksy**

" _I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone any more."_

What was this awareness?

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had done his job, followed orders, fought to avenge his comrades. Fought to avenge his other half.

After that, there was supposed to be nothing. His consciousness would fade, his souls would split from the many, many weaker souls he had consumed over the past several centuries, and they would all be released unto the afterlife.

He would find the part of himself that was so scared of being alone she was willing to die, if only to prolong his life for a short while longer. She left him, but he couldn't resent her for it, for that solitude was a part of them both just as much as their fear of it was. And besides, they both knew they would find each other again.

Maybe they would reunite automatically, maybe they would stay physically separated but would find each other in their new bodies within the Soul Society. It didn't matter, as long as they found each other.

That was the plan. That was fate. The kid had believed it, he had believed it, hell, even the shinigami that _killed them_ had believed it.

" _The weak can always find others to be around."_

Ah, it wasn't just the vague awareness of having an independent consciousness; he was aware of a body-his own-filled with a disconcerting amount of strength.

" _I want to be weak."_

His eyelids fluttered as he struggled to open them, aware of a bright light immediately above him and too close to his face.

" _I'm not alone anymore."_

He tried to expand his reiatsu, searching for anything, any _one_ familiar. The energy snapped back into him with a harsh shock, jolting his body and forcing a groan from his lips.

She wasn't anywhere near him. He was used to being so closely attuned to Lilynette presence that, with the barest effort, he could tell if she occupied the same plane of existence as him. But there was nothing. She was nowhere. Whatever realm he was waking in, she was not in it.

His eyelids were heavy, and, never one to willingly rise from bed, he struggled to find the will to force them open. But, he supposed, if he could not sense his female companion, he would have to begin his search for the girl eventually.

With great effort, his eyelids fluttered before opening into slivers. Somewhere nearby, he heard a distinctly feminine gasp, then quick steps opposite his position.

Then, distantly, "Doctor, the comatose patient is awake." A pause followed, then an indiscernible male voice replied, before the woman continued. "No, I'm unsure of his level of awareness, I wanted to alert you before proceeding."

The lights in the room were too bright, and Starrk's eyes struggled to adjust enough to make out his surroundings. He recognized the quiet _beeping_ of medical equipment and knew he was no longer in the world of the dead.

Finally, his pupils contracted, and he could make out his own form, reflected in the large light fixture used for the close examination of a patient's injuries. His eyes widened as they took in his now unfamiliar face.

His face was slightly fuller with a youthfulness he was unaccustomed to facing in his own reflection. His hair, the same wavy brown it had always been, fanned across the bed he laid upon, slightly longer than normal. His eyes, too had changed; no longer were they a light blue-gray, rather, they more closely resembled the flashing purple of his partner.

No. No no _no._

He had not agreed to this, had not consented to participate in the mad scientist's futile scheme to evade death.

He was supposed to live with Lilynette, die with her, and be reborn.

The steps of the woman closed in upon him, followed by who he assumed to be the male doctor she had spoken with outside the room. He moved with a clipped purpose, all business, while she approached with the more genial countenance of a nurse accustomed to providing bed-side comfort to confused patients.

The woman was speaking to him now as the doctor gazed at him with hard, critical eyes, sweeping over his form and back to the charts he held.

Starrk couldn't focus on them, his own eyes flailing wildly about the room, trying to find something to anchor his emotions.

" _Let's be together. Until the very end."_

But they weren't, and they couldn't be, because while he was quite certain her life as an arrancar had been ended, he was equally certain that his own existence has persisted.

 _-F-_

 **Bam, boom, chapter 1** _ **done**_ **. I have a vague idea of where I'd like this story to go, but generally, I'm as unsure of the plot at this point as all of you are. I haven't written anything other than school papers for the past few years now, so I'm not sure I managed to nail the different tones I'd like each espada's perspectives to have.**

 **R &R, helps me know if I'm headed in the right direction. Look forward to Orihime's introduction sometime late chapter two or three. Romance to follow later, after all of our characters have been appropriately assembled. **


	2. Known Unknown

" **All phenomena are real in some sense, unreal in some sense, meaningless in some sense, real and meaningless in some sense, unreal and meaningless in some sense, and real and unreal and meaningless in some sense."**

(Robert Anton Wilson)

 **Chapter Two: Known Unknown**

Orihime Inoue was depressed.

At first her friends thought she just needed to be reminded that she was not alone, that she was no longer the prisoner of that thrice damned Aizen or his dreaded arrancar army. They walked her to school, sat with her at meals, even took turns making sure she ate dinner before Tatsuki would come over and spend the night with her. Every day for three weeks, Orihime was surrounded by her closest friends.

It was suffocating.

She felt it as her every movement was watched, every word dissected. The hairs on the back of her neck stood and her skin crawled as the eyes of her compatriots roamed over her; her chest felt heavy with the weight of those eyes on her, every breath an effort. Orihime constantly felt the need to edit her behavior, to mould her expression into one as close to that of her typical energetic optimism. But the guilt she felt for her reticience to be near her dearest friends made it impossible to be convincing.

How could she wish them to leave her alone, especially after so many had risked their very lives to rescue her? How could she deny them time with her when it was so clear they only wished to help her return to normal?

Perhaps it was because she couldn't quite move past the fact that so many had doubted her, publicly and privately, to some degree. Even her precious Kurosaki-kun had doubted her, if only for a moment.

" _So Inoue didn't come to Hueco Mundo of her own free will after all?!"_

She'd never thought one sentence could hurt so much.

" _So you suspected the very friend you came to save?"_

If she was surprised by her Kurosaki-kun's doubts, she was shocked that Ulquiorra would express such a sentiment. She still wasn't sure if he'd only been trying to understand the motivations of her very human friends, or if he'd taken offense on her behalf. She knew it was likely the former, but couldn't help but hope it was the latter.

It was a wistful, silly hope, but she believed she was owed that one bit of girlish naivety.

She had been so mature and independent for so long. Oh, by outward appearances she was childish and spaced out, constantly flitting from one subject to the next, but she was no child. It wasn't a facade, entirely, as she did truly have an optimistic outlook on life, always believing things would work out for the best, but she was not as incompetent as many believed.

Orihime loved her friends, and she felt a sense of fulfillment when she had an important role to play in their lives. She was their cheerleader, their ray of sunshine on an otherwise dreary day; she broke the tension created by petty high school arguments or more serious drama plaguing them all as of late with her antics. She made them all forget, if only for a moment, how cruel and unfair their life could be. She encouraged them in all their endeavors, and did her best to build them up like they had done for her.

To a point.

They protected her, looked after her, ensured her well-being. She allowed this, knowing she would likely never feel the motivation to fight for herself, and being her protectors gave her friends the same sense of fulfillment she got from being their emotional support.

But she could no longer deny: they did not respect her. Perhaps she had played her part too well. She couldn't recall a time when she had ever actually disagreed with one of them; she just couldn't bring herself to start an argument.

Maybe she was too weak, too afraid they would leave her, but from the day she became friends with Tatsuki, she never bothered to voice any dissent.

Maybe that was why none of them trusted her judgement, or believed she could contribute to their mutual battles. Maybe that was why they did not even think her capable of defending herself.

Maybe that was why they had doubted her.

These thoughts plagued her constantly, worsening the negative feelings caused by having them perpetually surrounding her. It was overwhelming, and she had no idea how to express what she was feeling to any of them.

After all, how would she explain her knowledge of the conversations between Ulquiorra and Ichigo when she herself had not been present?

How could she explain the feelings that overcame her as Ulquiorra's ashes washed over her and spread into the vastness of the desert beyond, especially so long after the event? She had not even been able to look Ichigo in the eyes then, away from the judgement of the soul society or the concerned speculation of her friends.

For a brief moment, she had felt inextricably connected to the fourth espada. Every thought housed inside him washed over her; she felt as if she was touching his very soul.

And it ached.

Deeply, more powerfully than anything she had felt or seen, his soul ached. She could not conjure words to appropriately describe the desolation she saw in him, but _loneliness_ came the closest. In his mind's eye, the world was various shades of meaningless gray, and in the midst of it all, for the briefest moment in his existence, she shone.

It was difficult to grasp, how much she stood out in his perception of the world.

Maybe that's why he tried so hard to break her; he wanted her to conform, to fit into his longheld understanding of the world. But even then, his words and actions did not seem to always follow that goal or line of thinking.

" _What would you have me say?...I am not here to comfort you."_

Despite his words, there had been times where, for a moment, their interactions did make her feel better. With him, there was no need for a cheerful facade, and no room for weakness. She faced him, looked him in the eye, and refused to bend to his-or Aizen's-will. Orihime was actually quite proud of how she had handled herself in Hueco Mundo, surrounded by vicious predators, far from her protectors.

She had believed, naively perhaps, that her time in that desolate plane would herald a change in her role within her friend group. That finally, her nakama would see her whole self, and recognize her not just as a cheerful child but as a complex, strong young adult. Orihime had hoped they would see she did not have to be violent or angry to be strong, and that while she would always want them by her side, she, too, was capable of standing alone.

But they did not.

" _Happiness. If such a thing called happiness exists in this world, it should be something which resembles the limitless nothingness. Nihility is having nothing, and having nothing to lose. If that isn't 'happiness', then what is?"_

Had Ulquiorra known this would happen? Had he been trying to comfort her, after all? Was he attempting to soften the blow of her friends' inaccurate perception of her before it even came? Was that why he tried to impress upon her his own worldview? Did he think she could obtain his version of happiness?

Orihime spent so much time contemplating questions she could never possibly get answers to her head ached. Her thinking had become so cyclical, and there seemed to be no possible resolution to her confusion.

All she was sure of was that she was deeply disappointed that her friends had not trusted in her, did not trust in her still. For if they did, they would not feel the need to hover so closely, would not feel compelled to try to force her back into the daily routine of their lives before the war with Aizen.

So finally she stopped playing along.

She did not rise when Tatsuki woke her, breakfast tray in hand. She did not accept that same breakfast-how many times had she told Tatsuki-chan she did not like her morning rice without chili sauce?-and she offered no explanation for her behavior. She just...stopped.

Tatsuki had worried over her for nearly an hour before leaving for school with a firm promise to be back-likely with the rest of their friends as reinforcements.

Orihime had risen just long enough to lock her apartment door, then her bedroom door, before laying back down. For a day and a half she ignored the ring of her cellphone and the incessant knocking on her door. She even ignored the call of her own stomach as it protested her self-imposed confinement to her bed.

Finally, after almost two full days, they relented.

"Orihime-chan…" Tatsuki had sounded so confused, so hurt, Orihime had considered rising to answer her closest friend. "I don't know what's going on, but if this is you asking for space, I'll give it to you. Just know I'm waiting for you, whenever you're ready to talk about whatever you're feeling. I'll be here; we all will."

Orihime had listened to Tatsuki's steps on the landing, then descending the first few stair away from her apartment before she could hear no more. Then, despite the small amount of guilt surrounding Tatsuki's obvious lack of understanding behind her actions, Orihime had breathed deeply for the first time in weeks.

For four days afterwards she continued to hide within her apartment, ignoring the few instances where someone-other than a delivery man- came to her door.

She didn't actually do much. None of her crafts could hold her attention long, and it was strange to watch the lighthearted programs offered by daytime television. Mostly, she just enjoyed the quiet.

Returning from the tense silence and monochrome of Hueco Mundo to the carefree and bright world of the living had been a sort of culture shock for the orange haired girl. Added to the general atmosphere, the presence of her friends had made it impossible to sort through the sea of emotions she felt in the wake of her kidnapping and subsequent return.

So much had happened, and yet, for millions of people, nothing had changed. All around the world, people continued to go to work, to spend time with their families, to pursue frivolous hobbies. It was difficult to reconcile that all of her struggles, all the violence she had witnessed, had so little impact in the scheme of things.

It was as if all of it had meant nothing.

And yet, to her, it was everything. Her friends had doubted her, yes, but they had still followed her to _another world_ and fought for her. She had changed, though she wasn't entirely sure how yet. And in the end they all stopped the destruction of Karakura town and the destruction of the Gotei 13. In the end, the only thing she had left to do was accept the events that had happened.

There was no going back, there was not changing events that had passed; she would just have to explain to her nakama that she too was among the things that were different-yet-the-same. She was still an optimist, still their loyal supporter, but she also needed to be supported, needed to be trusted in the way she trusted them.

Firmly resolved to face her friends-and attempt to navigate her new self-Orihime rose from her couch when another firm knock sounded on her front door.

It was just nearing dinner time, the sun having slipped below the horizon a short time before then. The small but homey apartment was only dimly lit by the lamp sitting on the side table by her sofa and the glow of the television, the teen having yet to turn on the overhead lighting in the open kitchen. The yellow walls of the open plan living space were cast in a cooler blue tone, the various knick-knacks around the room reflected the flickering of the television.

Her steps padded softly on the carpeted floor, crossing the small space quickly. She took a deep breath and ran her hands through her hair, briefly straightening her lounge-rumpled clothing as much as she could.

 _This is silly, it's not like any of my friends expect me to look good. They'll probably just be relieved to know I didn't choke on my "weird" food and die in my room._

She cringed at the uncharacteristically morbid thought, slapped on a smile, and opened her door, prepared to give a very mature, adult explanation for why she had resolutely ignored her friends for half a week.

She took a breath, opening her mouth to speak as she raised her eyes to the face of her visitor, then, "...EHH?"

-break-

Starrk was lost.

Not figuratively or emotionally, but actually, physically lost, with no real idea of how to remedy the situation.

After weeks of observation with no explanation for his "amnesia", the hospital had finally released him. At first, he was relieved to be on his own, away from the harsh gaze of his physician and the intrusive friendliness of the nurses. Their efforts to coax him to "remember" some part of his background were as pointless as they were tiresome; he knew full well where he was from and how he came to be there, but he couldn't very well explain that to a bunch of random humans.

He'd seen one of the crazies the hospital had forcibly obtained-"For his own safety," a nurse assured him-and Starrk had no desire to end up labelled a danger to himself by trying to explain that he was-or had been-a highly evolved, soul eating spirit from another world. That alone would have been enough to have him committed without even attempting to explain the intricacies of the Winter War, his place in the Espada, or how he came to be in a body that was very much alive.

So, after the mandatory observation period passed, he was released without incident, and wandered about the town he had been ordered to destroy without purpose.

Well, he had a purpose, he supposed, but he couldn't exactly fulfill it.

He knew he was _supposed_ to find the safehouse established as a part of the number eight's back-up plan, but he had no idea how to get there. It wasn't like he had actually known the directions he'd been given were _important_ ; it was completely understandable that he'd forgotten them. Anyone would have.

 _Except Lilynette._

She always remembered the little things for him; details of the few assignments he was sent out on, times of the meetings of the Espada, even when he needed to rise from a nap to eat.

He hadn't realized how much he relied on the little spitfire, the other piece of himself.

He had nowhere to go, and no money for a place to stay or even for enough food to satiate the hunger he was just barely becoming accustomed to.

Oh, he had been hungry before, but the hunger of a hollow and the hunger of a human were inherently different. He felt no instinctual need to consume, fueled by the knowledge that if he did not maintain his strength he would be overwhelmed and usurped by one of the other souls that resided just under the surface within him. His new body desired sustenance, not domination or violence; there was no bloodlust, just a biological need, free of any moral implications.

One of his nurses had been particularly fixated on whether or not he had a _job_. From the context he gained she didn't mean a mission like what the Espada were routinely assigned, but more of an ongoing obligation. Something that gave purpose. And money...for food.

His stomach grumbled loudly, again.

Starrk signed.

 _Maybe I should find one of those...jobs. Sure'd be nice to eat somethin'._

But how could he go about it?

He sighed. The whole situation was so...annoying. And unnecessary. He would've rather followed Lilynette, wherever she'd gone. The stupid plan hadn't worked right anyway; that pink-haired lunatic had pretty much promised, if put into effect, him and Lilynette would end up fused back together in their new body.

Like they always should've been.

Instead he was stuck wandering around an unknown town, full of unknown, _living_ people.

The situation was so ridiculous he would've laughed, if he hadn't been so irritated.

And tired.

And hungry.

Quite suddenly, he realized he felt something familiar. Distantly, a reiatsu pulsed peacefully. He reached out with what remained of his own, altered, reiatsu.

The unknown person's reiatsu reacted faintly. It felt...warm. Vaguely familiar. Almost comforting, especially in the sea of unknown persons.

Starrk lethargically changed the direction of his slow walk, aiming for the known-but-unknown person emitting the signature.

It took a couple hours at the pace he'd set, but shortly after sundown he found himself on the second floor landing of an apartment complex. He approached the nearest door on his left and reached out his reiatsu once again, careful, this time, to use only the bare amount necessary to assure himself that this mystery person was inside the unit without alerting them to his presence.

 _Ah, there it is_.

The reiatsu was content and peaceful, with no sign of conflict. It seemed secure, confident, almost, which vaguely surprised him. If the signature belonged to who he guessed it might, then something had most definitely changed for the girl.

 _No use standin' here._

He knocked twice, firmly, and waited.

A moment passed, then another, and he heard the lock on the door turn just before it was pulled open.

She had a smile on her face and it struck him that he had never seen her with such an expression. Looking at her now, it was odd to imagine her without it; she looked natural smiling, in her pink shirt and floral printed pajama pants. Everything about her was colorful, from the blue polish on her fingernails to her sunset colored hair to her mismatched neon socks. She looked younger in her slightly disheveled state than she had in the structured white dress Aizen provided her.

Finally she raised her eyes to actually look at him, and he vaguely wondered if the sparkle in her blue-grey eyes had always been there, or if it had been overwhelmed by her calm facade during her imprisonment.

She took him in and he prepared himself, ready to explain how he'd come to be there, fully expecting her to rage at him and call the full force of her nakama down upon him.

She inhaled to speak before registering who stood on her doorstep. "EHH?!"

She gaped at him, eyes comically wide, and Starrk stared back in bewilderment. Definitely not what he'd expected.

It was difficult not to laugh at her, but he contained himself to a lazy smirk. "Yo." He sniffed discretely, trying to temper his disappointment that she obviously hadn't prepared anything for her evening meal yet. "Got anything to eat?"

 **Cool. Chapter two. Kind of boring, but we need the set up. Looking forward to more involved interaction between our favorite redhead chick and our resurrected primera.**


End file.
